As soon as dessert was finished, Tucker said, "I want to smoke. Let's start up for the singing, Charlie." Symington would have liked to explore the rest of the club-house, though of course he did not say so. He did not even ask what the singing meant. But as they arose to leave the table he did ask a question about one of the portraits of the ancient and modern athletic heroes which line the walls. "Yes, Charlie," said Tucker, "that's he." "I remember just how he looked when he made that long, low drive, that time, in the ninth inning," Symington said, solemnly. "Yes," said Tucker, briefly, "a great many of us will always remember his long, low drives. Here is your cap." This was in reference to a large portrait at the end of the room. The frame had a deep black border. Tucker and his friend, the other fellow, the University treasurer, whose name the prep. had forgotten, waited until entirely out of the house before lighting their pipes. Two or three of the team joined Tucker and Symington and the University treasurer. The prep. felt that one of them was coming up beside him. He waited a moment and then glanced out of the corner of his eye. He caught his breath, but did not fall down. It was the captain of the 'varsity nine. It's a very fine thing to be head man of your school and pitcher on your team, but oh, if the school could see him now! "How do you like our club?" asked the captain in a voice something like other men's. "I like the club," said Symington. "Yes, we think it's a pretty comfortable place. Come down to-morrow and we'll show you the Trophy-room and all." Then he began to question him about his team at school. To Symington's surprise and delight the captain seemed to know the score of all the important games they had played and how many--or how few--base hits had been gained in each one off him, Charles Symington. And he can tell you to this day every word of the conversation and at what point of the walk it was when the captain said, "Well, you are pitching pretty good ball this year. This is McCosh walk. Look at those trees." "Yes," said Symington. The soft evening light was sifting down through the interlacing branches, making a glow to dream about, which Symington did not notice. He had no time to waste at present. They passed between Chapel and Murray Hall and across back of West toward North. Just as they reached Old Chapel strange notes of music broke in on the prep.'s ears. At first he could not make up his mind whether it was vocal or instrumental, or whether it was real at all, in fact, or part of a dream like everything else perhaps. The seniors were singing, and from that part of the campus it echoes oddly, as you doubtless know.